10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 56: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

549. selves that everything happens for the best. And there’s no doubt that it was all for the best that I couldn’t sleep that right. I was in that twilight zone be- tween slumber and wakefulness when I heard the faint scratching in the lock of my door. My eyes blinked open, but the rest of my body did not move, T WAS very dark except for a thin sliver of light from a pale moon that slanted through the cracks of the drawn shade. My eyes were fixed on the door and as I watched I saw it move inward. There was a dark shadow in the doorway, visible by the dim hall light. And then the door closed very softly and the shadow melted into the room’s darkness. I guess I had a moment of blind, cold panie, I felt that I could not move, that I was dumbly transfixed and bound onto the bed. I made no effort to get up. I could only keep my eyes glued on the black outline as it moved closer to me. I couldn’t even cry out. My mouth was dry and a great lump was wedged back against my throat, And then, in that very dim light from the moon, I saw something else. A faint glint of steel. Steel up- raised above the apparition’s head, poised to strike. My hands were sticky and my whole body was wreathed in a cold, clammy sweat. The outline came closer, loomed above my bed and there was no mis- taking the knife in his hand. I could hear the noise of his breathing, low and raucous. The wonder of it was that I moved at all. But I did. Self-preservation is an instinct, born into us. I gave a great sucking gulp and a hoarse yell and flung myself sideways off the bed. Just in time. The blade flashed down and made a ripping noise through the mattress. My would-be assassin gave a low cry of baffled rage and threw himself on the bed to reach over for me, 10-STORY DETECTIVE—-——_-——_—_--—_-—-_———- My hand touched something on the floor. My shoe. It was a heavy-soled, out-door type. I grabbed it and swung with all my might. It caught the fel- low against the wrist and the knife clattered out of his hand to the floor. I jumped up, but I was too late. I could see his back outlined against the open door and his feet went pounding down the narrow corridor. I stubbed my toe against my other shoe and spilled headlong to the floor. I shook myself and got up and turned on the light, badly shaken. My face was chalk-white in the bureau mirror. My hands were trembling and a cold feeling gripped: my stomach. I locked the door and jammed a chair up against it under the knob. On the floor, near the wali, its six- inch steel blade glittering wickedly, lay a bone-handled knife. I had a mo- mentary vision of myself stretched out on the bed, with a hideous expres- sion frozen on my face, the bone haft jutting straight up from my chest. I picked the knife up by the blade and wrapped it carefully in a face towel. I shoved it under the bathtub against the wall. There was a knock on the door. It gave me quite a start and I realized how badly frayed were my nerves. “‘Who’s there?” I cried hoarsely. “Sam—it’s Sam Fisher.” I pulled the chair away and let him in. “Say, what kind of a nuthouse is this?” Sam asked. I stared at him. He looked as if he’d been through a concrete mixer, The side of his face was bruised and scraped and blood drooled from his nose. His coat and pants were smeared, his hair disheveled. “What happened?” He started brushing himself off. ‘I was climbing the stairs when some Junatic came rushing down them like a shot out of hell and ran smack dab into me, knocked me down two full flights, jumped over me and kept on going without so much as an ‘excuse. please’.”’ MIGoOOo (C(O) S (C(O) im